


Just Talking

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: I CAN'T BREATHE, I didn't even mean to write this one, I'm dead, M/M, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, but here's one more, yes I already have a million of these
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Dean can have his happiness too!
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Destiel
Kudos: 54





	Just Talking

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to write an entirely different one-shot, forgot what it was, wrote this one instead, and then remembered. So stay tuned.

“You ever think that drinking’s not the answer to your problems?” Sam asked, passing Dean by. The nerd had a _water bottle_ in his hand. Water! Who the fuck drank water? Dean just went back to his whiskey.

“Sammy, it’s about thirty-seven years too late for me to start therapy.”

Sam sat down across from him, and tried snatching away the whiskey bottle. Dean pulled it back.

“Dude, I miss him too. I miss both of them, but we’re not gonna be feeling any better stuck in here just--just drinking.”

“You won’t,” Dean told him. “I might.”

Usually that was when Sam would get up and walk away. Usually there were more important things in the world than Dean’s “drinking problem.”

Not anymore.

World saved.

No one to worry about but each other.

Sam didn’t leave.

“Dude.”

Dean ignored him.

“Dude!”

After a swallow of whiskey, feeling the way it burned his tongue and kissed his lips, he turned to Sam. “What?”

“You’re not... I mean, you’re not even gonna try to get him back?”

Dean was the one who left that conversation.

It was past midnight, and Sam’s hand was itching to go open the liquor cabinet, to grab a bottle for himself, to nurse it till he went to sleep.

He exhaled a long breath, and sat down on the table with their names carved into it.

Sam felt his exterior crumble, felt the wall he’d been trying to put back together cracking in the middle.

“What are we supposed to do, Jack?” Sam asked. “I miss you. Life is... well, it’s lonely without you. What can I say? You’re my kid. I know--I know you’re God and all that, but it’d be nice to just... to just have you here. And look, I know... I know you said you are here, that you’re in everything, and I feel that. I do. But when I see the light in the sky, or how--how puffy a cloud is, it’s still not like I’m looking at your face. I guess... sue me, I’m human. I just miss my kid.”

There was no response.

Sam tapped his thighs, and then sighed, eyes closing.

“Well, yep. Good talk.”

Sam got up to leave, and then there was an all-too familiar person standing before him.

Without a thought, or even knowledge of seconds passing, Sam wrapped Jack up in a hug. He was hugging God, and it felt like this was his home. This was his son.

When they could finally pull back and look at each other, Jack said, “I miss you, too, Sam. And Dean. He’s... not feeling well, is he?”

“Can you blame him?”

Jack looked at Sam, really _looked_ at him, and Sam had the urge to squirm, to cover himself.

“You’re sad.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You know, Dean, he--he didn’t ask you to bring him back, and for my part, I didn’t either. And now... would it be...” Sam couldn’t go on. If Jack hadn’t brought him back before now, then Sam, a human, trying to ask him just wouldn’t do. Still, he had to go on: “It’s not fair for him, you know. He--he died thinking that was it, that anything past that moment just didn’t matter.”

“That’s not true,” Jack argued, voice as gentle as ever, but filled with the sadness of a child. “It mattered to him. The whole world mattered to him, and that’s why he did it. That’s why he made his choice. It was his free will, Sam. I can’t take that away.”

“He didn’t know there would ever be another choice,” Sam reasoned. “He was trapped. They both were. Wouldn’t you have wanted a second chance?”

“I’ll...” Jack frowned now, seeming confused. “I’ll have to talk to him.” And then he was gone.

Dean woke up to someone gently tapping on his shoulder. In an instant, he reached for the Colt MK-IV that he had under his pillow, his hand wrapping around the pearl grip. It was warm, as if he’d been holding it in his sleep, waiting, waiting for anything to come and take him and ruin him even more deeply than he already was.

Dean turned, resting his weight on his back, and used his stomach muscles to keep himself slightly up and rigid.

Darkness met him.

“Whoa! Whoa. Sorry.”

Dean sighed heavily, and lowered the pistol so he could turn on his lamp.

When the golden glow hit his eyes, he groaned, the headache from a hangover beginning to seep in.

“Jack, what the hell, kid?” Dean asked.

“I spoke to him.”

“What?”

Dean was sitting up now, and he ran his hands through his hair, trying to straighten himself out. It was nice to see his son. Hell, it was _really_ nice, but he had a hangover to get back to. And there just wasn’t any polite way to say that.

“I spoke to him, and he said... Well, he’ll tell you.”

Jack snapped his fingers, and then he was gone. Someone else stood in his place.

No. No, he had to be dreaming. He _was_ dreaming.

“Ha, very funny,” Dean commented. He poked at his head, trying to tell it he got the joke. He nodded, and then winked at the image his head had come up with. “Nice knowing you. Now let me get back to sleep.”

He rolled over, and was about to settle his head back onto the pillow when a strong, _real_ hand gripped his shoulder, and held on tight.

Dean froze. He couldn’t breathe. Was his heart even beating? His eyes slowly looked over that hand, up the wrist, the arm, to the person standing there, _touching_ him, _looking at him_ , and smiling, smiling so big and sad, yet warm and hopeful all at once.

“Cas?” Dean breathed. Castiel nodded. Before Dean knew it, he was up on his knees, holding Cas to him at arm’s length, just staring, and staring, and staring. “How--How is this real?”

“I told Jack I needed to come back.”

“You-- _what_?”

“Dean, the way I went... it was a last resort. It was to keep you safe, to make sure you would live. And you did. And now... and now the world is safe, and I realized--I realized that my story’s not over. It wasn’t over then because it remained unfinished, one-sided. I knew my happiness, but you didn’t know yours. Even asleep in the Empty, I knew you would never know yours, unless...”

“So this is for me?”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Castiel snapped. And then he pulled Dean close.

“If I’m a dumbass, will it mean you have to stay?”

“Dean, I’m never leaving.”

“Good, you suck at goodbyes.”

Castiel nodded, resting against him. “I know.”

“And I... and I suck at everything else.”

“Dean--”

“No, Cas. No. Just--just listen.” He ran a hand through Cas’ hair and then cradled his face in his hands. “For--for twelve years you’ve been there, kept me safe, loved me even--even when I didn’t think I deserved it. And you think I was here, on the other side of it, _not_ loving you? Cas, of course I do. _Of course_ I love you. What your true happiness is -- you can have it. _We_ can have it.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“Now _you’re_ the dumbass.”

Dean pulled Castiel into a kiss, and as Cas met him with fierce longing and passion of his own, he never wanted to let him go again.


End file.
